


Breaking Ground

by Nyruserra



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Goats, Ireland, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyruserra/pseuds/Nyruserra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow, the barn was the last place he wanted to face her.  And frankly, the goat was definitely not helping matters... </p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NephthysMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NephthysMoon/gifts).



> Thanks to Laurabeth, BC and elwenstarmaid, for beta'ing

 

**Breaking Ground**

 

It was a rough-hewn kitchen, full of character and distress marks from raising generations of Finnigans. Sunlight poured in through wide windows and from the open top-half of the Dutch door. Scoured copper pots hung from the low ceiling, glinting dully in the white morning light. They swayed slightly above the scarred wooden trestle table he and his brothers had built one winter, when the counter space had simply proved inadequate. Love and stability were etched in every smooth-sanded surface, every planed line. It was the type of place that exemplified serenity, a sort of timeless untouchability, and gave one the feeling that this place was more solid than any king’s castle.

It was Seamus’s favourite room in the whole house; probably his favourite place in the whole of the old Meath county. And even at twenty-seven years of age, he found he needed to be here every now and then.

“So, boyo, you plan on tellin’ me what’s got t’ yese so deep?” His da sat quietly across from him at the family table, one leg hooked in behind his chair leg in exact complement to his son as they shared an early morning cuppa over thick cereal.

Seamus winced slightly. He’d been taking refuge here all week; both straining to be closer to, and hiding from, in equal measure as he followed his heart back to the auld country.

Actually, he’d followed one Hermione Jane Granger, but Seamus felt pathetic enough, he might as well go all in.

He really shouldn’t have been feeling like this; not now anymore, anyway. It wasn’t like they were in sixth year again, when he had been forced to watch her pine over Weasley, or catch her snogging (albeit not very enthusiastically on her part, he consoled himself later) with that Quidditch jerk, McLaggen. She was no longer the bossy, prissy swot who intimidated every boy in her year– and quite a few of the ones above, he’d be willing to wager – but who had inspired many late night speculations by boys who were just starting to become aware of exactly how arousing a bossy little witch could be – though never while her two best friends were around of course. Some things you just didn’t do to friends, after all; it just wasn’t on.

Instead, he had mostly ignored her during school, pushing the late-night dorm talk and the confusing interest that had been stirred by it to the back of his mind, where it wouldn’t be as likely to get him in trouble – well, more trouble than usual, anyway. She was a bit of an uptight know-it-all anyway, though someone like that definitely needed help relaxing, if he’d ever seen it…

Seamus knew when to beat a hasty retreat, and cut that train of thought dead.

They had spent a great deal of time together during the war, surprisingly. He had joined the Order in the first harrowing months of his seventh year, when the school had suddenly become a base of operation for the few who seemed to be poised to actually _do_ something about the Dark Lord’s return. There’d been a brutal fight in the Finnigan home that August, when Seamus had announced his intention to return to Hogwarts despite his rather matriarchal mother’s intentions. It was one of the first times, barring the short, loud argument in Hogwarts’ Entrance Hall a few months before that, that he had really taken a stand. He could remember the helpless rage that his ma would want him to run away, to hide and let other people make it safe again, when he _knew_ who those _other people_ were made up of - she sat next to him in Herbology every day, and she wasn’t a superhero from his da’s Muggle comics, or even particularly well equipped to go after the source of supreme evil, but she went anyway, and Seamus had felt ashamed to do any less.

When he’d first realized that Hermione Granger was indeed, a very beautiful witch and incredible person, he hadn’t quite known what to do about it. He’d been twenty-five, and ready to take on the world in the giddy freedom of the newly re-built, post-war world, and she had been the last person he’d been expecting to see in the Hog’s Head. She had been standing there, at the back of the pub, staring at a small tarnished plaque someone had put up commemorating the dented and rubbish-looking table beneath as _the_ one that the heroic Harry Potter, in a brilliant pre-emptive move, had formed his all-important Hogwarts Defence team, the DA, thereby assuring that they were in place to protect the school when he’d gone on his final quest.

Of course, Seamus had promptly snorted at this blatant bit of fabrication, knowing full well that Harry, though a great bloke, was sure as hell not a brilliant leader and hadn’t done it out of any grander view of the future or superior strategic thinking – but true to his nature, Seamus’s reaction slipped out before he considered that such derision in front of _her_ might be a bit of a blunder. To his surprise, she’d turned to him, clearly startled by his presence, and grinned impishly back.

They’d struck up an instant camaraderie, picking up effortlessly from where they’d left things at the dissolution of the Order, but somehow it was different now, and he found himself enjoying the afternoon immensely, pouring on the charm just to see her rail at him, flirting and laughing outrageously as they made arrangements to meet again the following week. Two years later, and he was still no closer to finding his way into Hermione’s heart then he had been at that dimly lit, strangely goaty pub.

Over the next few years she’d honestly become his best friend, though he was still sometimes at a loss to explain how it had happened. She scolded him when he needed it, which was often. She allowed him to mess up her careful schedules and plans, to just to show up on her door and drag her out with a charming grin and no intention of being dissuaded. Frankly, he felt she needed a little chaos in her life, and he was more than happy to provide it.

His current early-morning refuge in his parents’ kitchen was in direct response to brown eyes: specifically, warm-as-taffy brown eyes that had done peculiar things to his nervous system. Hermione Granger had continued her campaign for the House Elves upon leaving Hogwarts, and, after a lot of hard lobbying, had succeeded in securing many concessions in the current laws that would gradually lead to big changes for both the elves, and the wizards who employed them. Having succeeded in one arena, she immediately turned her sights on the circumstances of the many other magical creatures, making such a nuisance of herself that the Ministry, having had enough of her onslaught, hired her in self-defence.

So she now worked in the Department of Magical Creatures, and when she had mentioned her current project to him over Butterbeers at the Leaky Cauldron, while watching him with big soft eyes from across the rather prosaic table, he’d been just relaxed enough to immediately put his foot in his mouth – agreeing in his moment of weakness to assist Hermione in observing some of the more secretive fairies Éire had to offer.

Bringing a girl home for his ma to fuss about had been something he’d avoided all his adult life, though he was hard pressed to admit the real reason for his anxiety in this particular circumstance – as he could, and did, truthfully introduce Hermione as nothing more than his friend.

He did know why he was anxious, though. He wanted them to _like_ her, not just as his friend but as the woman he wanted very badly to bring back for the holidays in a few weeks, and as something a great deal more than his _friend_.

“Yese gonna talk, boyo, or jus’ stare a’ yer auld man?”

Seamus shook his head, clearing the last of his mood. “Nah, I’ve enough to be goin’ on with right now. ’m takin’ Hermione out by th’ North pasture this after, but I’ll be ‘round later teh give a hand.”

Thomas gave his youngest son a knowing look, and Seamus could feel the flush rising on his collar and kept his eyes on the table, hoping his da would let it lie.

He did, looking down at the last dregs in his cup instead, before finishing his tea. “Just see tha’ you are. ‘ve got a lot o’ baling to be done, and an extra hand would come in fairly.”

Hermione had been staying at the farm all week while Seamus took her around the countryside gathering whatever obscure information she was seeking for her report. He didn’t ask, feeling that whatever it was would likely be above his head anyway, and was equally content and tortured by turns by just being able spend time with her, showing off the home he loved so much.

He hadn’t been embarrassed to come from the hard work of farm life prior to his arrival at Hogwarts. He’d learned from his da the importance of working hard, and playing harder; a philosophy that served him well as a half-blood and only average student, but he’d always been proud of his heritage. He grinned, privately. _What_ _was bein’ a wizard next t’ being Oirish, after all?_

Dean thought he was crazy for not pursuing her sooner, feeling that if Hermione had put up with him this long she must care for him, as it would take a whole lot of _something_ to put up with Seamus, and he should wrap her up before she came to her senses. Harry laughed, and told him Hermione was far too good for him, but if he thought he could keep up with her, he should bloody well get on with it.

But he knew Hermione, and knew she’d have to get there on her own. She was cautious and methodical, often married to her work, and prone to making extensive lists before heading into any new action – and she felt that dating, for the most part, was all rubbish anyway.

So instead, he’d contented himself with their friendship, to the point that he wasn’t sure he could imagine his life without her in it. Though he felt that bringing her out here hadn’t been his idea, so much as a lapse in judgement, he liked having her here ; though frankly he was a little concerned she was getting along so well with not only his sister Einin (who knew far too many embarrassing stories about him for comfort), but his older _brother_ too.

Kevan was friendly with all the girls, though Seamus could honestly wish he’d be a little less friendly with this one.

Hermione had been acting odd lately though, and Seamus wasn’t taking any chances with what he already had. She’d been staring at him oddly all week, and he recognised the look; she was studying him. Which would normally have him nearly cheering with relief, except he’d caught her staring at Kevan a time or two, too.

-..-

Of course, it didn’t take his sister long to notice his distraction, though he was glad she at least had the decency to wait until Hermione wasn’t in earshot before starting in on him.

“Jaysus, Shay, ’ve never seen ye so slow with a girl yeh liked – let alone one ye love,” Einin burst out, as soon as she had him alone.

Seamus was helping her peel a small mountain of vegetables for dinner, having left Hermione out in the fields observing the habitats, or some such, and it was obvious from Einin’s tone that she had been aching to say it since he’d been home.

“It’s no’ like tha’,” Seamus grunted, “so jus’ leave off it.”

“Don’ try t’ tell me tha’ ye don’ return any o’ her feelings,” she tossed her tattie in the pan and turned to stare at him witheringly. “I know yeh better’n tha’.”

_Her feelings…?_ “Ye’re daft.”

Her look actually turned pitying. “She’s good for yeh, boyo, an’ if ye don’ get yer arse in gear, ‘m going to make it a personal mission to see t’ it that ye don’ get another chance.”

Seamus looked up sharply. “Wha’ nonsense are ye on about?”

“Time’s wasting, Shay; Kevan may no’ be as loveable as ye, but if ye waste any more of it, ‘ll see to it tha’ he seems the most loveable bloke this side o’ the channel.”

And with that, she flounced out, leaving him with the rest of the peeling, and the beginnings of a headache.

_She’s daft._

But he couldn’t get it out of his mind after that. It _did_ bother him when she looked at Kevan like that.

And she did it far too often for comfort.

To be fair, it was very possibly just a look of incredulity at the steady flow of utter shite that came out of his mouth, but it was still too often for Seamus’s comfort.

Which was nonsense, really; she hadn’t dated anyone, that he knew of, since Ron, three years before.

-..-

There were names for men who were nurses, even in the Wizarding world, and certainly in the parts of Ireland that Seamus had grown up in. He stared off, disinterested, as he swirled the whiskey in his cup. The amber liquid made a golden glow on the polished wood of the bar and it danced as his fingers continued their trick with the glass. Healing was not ever something he had expected to do with his life, and he’d been surprised as anyone to find that it was something he could do in that broken world that had been the Second Dark War.

It was a comfortable fit, his easy-going and never-ruffled manner often able to both charm and soothe his patients, and the slightly derogatory comments that he’d occasionally attracted fell away like water on a duck’s arse anyway; Seamus had always been stepping to his own drum, and convincing people it was theirs, too.

There were several who would never believe that _that_ Seamus, the one who took nothing seriously except what few things he held as truly important; and _this_ Seamus, the one with sweaty palms and who was hiding out in pubs at two in the morning, just so he could be sure to avoid a rather pretty witch – could be one and the same.

He’d blown it tonight. He couldn’t believe how far past _blown_ it was.

Bringing her to Ireland had been a mistake, of course. Being this close to home – not home like his townhouse, but _home_ , where love and family and dedication were ingrained in every pore, had him thinking in ways that, he had to be honest, he’d been trying to push back for a while now, because facing it meant the possibility of losing her.

He’d taken her out, as he’d promised, to _Temair in gaeilge_ , The Hill of Tara. According to the ancient beliefs his da had taught him, Tara was once thought to be the entrance to the Otherworld – though of course it was really just the bleedin’ fairies mucking with the frightened Muggles.

Even with all the indoctrination he’d had over the years into the Wizarding world, part of him would always be his da’s son, and a son of Éire, and that part responded to the ancient majesty and power of this daunting hill and all its earthworks. Kings had fought and died here, druids had performed their sacred rights to the land here, and above the whole scene stood the standing stones, crowned by the King’s Stone, or the Stone of Destiny, said to roar when the rightful king of Tara touched it.

This part of Ireland, the wizards and witches lived close to the land. There was a connection, though Seamus couldn’t explain it in the modern atmosphere of London or Hogwarts, that always seemed to tug on his soul while he was here, and left him feeling like an absolute pagan for a while.

“… _The Mound of Hostages_ is actually a reference to the ancient custom of taking important personages hostage from subdued and subjugated kingdoms to ensure their continuing submission. It would have been quite effective really, in a barbaric way.” As usual, Hermione could give a better tour than even the trained guides; she’d probably devoured a few textbooks on the place over toast that morning, just to make sure she didn’t miss a single detail as she gazed about with huge eyes.

He gave her an amused smile, neatly slipping them past the Muggle barriers without missing a beat in conversation. “Those _barbarians_ were some o’ the strongest kings o’ their day, lass; show a little respect.”

“Still sounds like underhanded tactics to me,” she humphed, but couldn’t hold it for long, and ended up grinning back at him.

“O’ course it was – they were _Irish_ after all. We tended t’ go for what worked, and leave the chivalry nonsense t’ those as liked t’ fight for no reason. Much quicker tha’ way, an’ leaves more time for celebratory drinking after.”

Hermione gave him a playfully sour look. “Well, you are pure Irish through and through, Seamus Finnigan, because you are certainly the Master at underhanded.”

He grinned, doffing an imaginary cap as he gave a small bow. He was flirting with her again, of course, but she had grown so used to it that she simply ignored him. If she ever one day flirted back, he figured he might propose on the spot. Inside, he winced, _If it was possible, he might be even worse than Weasley had been back during their school days._

“Ah, tis yer jus’ falling for me charm, _mo mhuirnín_ _.”_

It just sort of slipped out, but it shouldn’t have mattered; who spoke Gaelic, but the natives, anyway?

Apparently, Hermione did. Or at least had a passing familiarity with it, though why in Merlin’s name she would was beyond him. But there was no mistaking the sharply indrawn breath or the incredulous look in her eyes as she’d watched him; almost warily, he’d thought, as if unsure at to what he’d do next.

Panic, that’s what he did. At least she hadn’t tried to pretend that he wasn’t uncomfortable, or that he wasn’t wondering what had happened, but she was far too honest, and a wee touch too socially clueless to just to let it lie, either.

“Einin’s taught me a few things. She thought it might be useful, for some reason.” She was blushing as she said the last bit, not the demure blush of a girl flirting, but all Hermione; annoyed at her own inability to stop it.

“Yeh, well Einin’s go’ a big mouth,” he muttered mutinously.

“Seamus!”

“Ah, she’s always been the prettiest gossip in all the isle; could have been a Hufflepuff with her chattering, instead of Ravenclaw.” The words came out lightly enough, almost bantering, but every muscle in his body was still taut; not really sure whether he was going to be handed his sensitive parts back on a platter, and more than a little awestruck and horrified at his own blunder as she stood there fidgeting and avoiding his eyes.

_Two years. It was probably a miracle he’d lasted this long, really._

She seemed to recover first, some inner battle apparently decided when she suddenly straightened her shoulders a bit and caught his gaze.

The look she gave him was full of steely resolve, and he suddenly found himself back-pedalling, absolutely sure he couldn’t handle whatever rationalization she had come up with.

Because, despite this horribly awkward situation, all he still wanted to do was kiss her, and get to some proper mussing of that thick hair of hers.

Somehow he beat her to the mark, got his mouth in gear and filled the silence with something; anything just so long as it was taking them further and further from his dismal declaration, and he kept it up through the remainder of the tour. Every time she so much looked like she might be trying to get a word in edgewise that wasn’t a comeback or a reprimand, he blathered nonsense until she gave up. Afterward, he never could give a clear account of that conversation, but he made it through, all the way back home without having to listen to her hand his feelings back to him.

Then he was off, hoping to find Einin, and share a few of his _feelings_ at her meddling.

He waved the hovering barman off, only to glare sourly at the glass he didn’t remember emptying. The crowd had thinned out by now, with only a few regulars clustered ‘round their tables, old men who were old even in Seamus’s earliest memories of the village, and wondered bitterly how in a place where nothing ever changed, his life had suddenly been turned upside-down in the space of an afternoon.

He winced and signalled the barkeep with his empty glass.

-..-

She found him in the barn, late the next night, tending to the few angora goats his ma kept. He was hand feeding a black one, Molly, who had always been a bit of a runt, and had needed help in getting her fair share when born the year before. She didn’t need the help now, being more than clever enough by half to compete with the others, and had a sweet grin that seemed to get her whatever she pleased. But, he had a bit of a soft spot for her, having been a touch on the small side himself for most of his adolescence, and knowing full well how useful a charming smile and an infectious laugh could be when you were only 5’4” in a dorm that, until sixth year anyway, always seemed full of people’s chests.

“Shhh, darling, there’s enough for ye if ye just slow down, ye dozy thing,” he murmured crooningly. “No’ such easy solutions for me; ’ll be lucky if I get the chance to explain, let alone the chance to do it _again_ …”

Molly just gave him a deep look from big brown eyes, for all the world looking sweet and commiserating, but probably just wondering why the food had slowed down.

His thoughts had been running in circles for hours, and though he’d managed to avoid Hermione since the afternoon, before, part of him was bothered that she hadn’t _wanted_ to find him, or at least, tried harder. It more than bothered him – he was downright _scared_.

When he’d begun, he’d told himself it was only until she was used to the idea of him and her in conjunction with one another; Lord knew that they weren’t an intuitive choice. He’d planned it as a temporary measure only, until he thought he had a better’n decent chance of getting her out on a date and he could stop being so carefully friendly and casual.

Of course, he’d never planned on her becoming such an integral part of his life, like oxygen, that he’d be too poof-arsed to risk losing her.

He’d known, of course. He came off as shallow as a rain puddle some days, but he knew he simply saved his focus for the few things he found important. Working hard, playing harder; family, friends, and the woman he was trying to ignore he loved.

And that was just it. He _loved_ her, and that thought terrified him.

“Bah, an’ nice way t’ stumble int’it. All sudden-like and sloppy. Here Hermione, would ye mind terribly if I follow ye around for a while? Say the rest o’ me life?”

_Feck, it wasn’t sudden though; the last two years had practically been foreplay with all his flirting, but somehow he’d always managed to bring it back from the edge before it was too late_.

Of course, he should have known better to be talking to the goat. Aside from the fact that his confidante was of the caprine variety, the really important fact, the one he was overlooking in his current turmoil, was how very _public_ a barn could be.

“Seamus?”

He could feel the colour rising up his collar, and he’d be damned if his ears weren’t going as red as Weasley’s when he was embarrassed.

“Hermione,” he managed to strangle out.

_Yep, this evening had officially gone to bollocks._

He should have realized something was up, should have seen _something_ coming. The look on her face was a dead giveaway, but he had been so lost in his own churning thoughts that he didn’t even get the chance to stand from the up-ended bucket he was using as a seat, and was left feeling at a distinct disadvantage talking up at her chin. The damned goat began playfully nudging his thighs, so that he had to watch the horns if he didn’t want to be singing soprano for a week, but running his fingers through her long coat and soothing her gave him something to occupy his hands with – preventing him from simply pulling the snow-dotted scarf from Hermione’s hair and proceeding to do a proper job of things this time.

Of course, it was hard to get a handle on what Hermione was thinking at the best of times, and Seamus knew her better than most, but the woman facing him right now appeared to have spent too much time with his sister for his own comfort, for the impish curve of her lips was at all odds with the guarded look in her eyes. Neither of them boded particularly well for not sharing his embarrassing lapse of talking to barn animals over family breakfast tomorrow; at least, he fervently hoped that was the worst of his problems. The possibility that she had actually over-heard the topic of his unguarded comments was something he was feverishly trying to ignore.

He frowned when she stopped just out of reach, where he couldn’t even touch her, as if being close to him would make her vulnerable – or possibly provoke him again, as though he were given to bouts of madness, maybe.

She had that same steely look in his eye, and he knew there was no avoiding it, this time – and he still had no idea what to say.

“Seamus—” She stopped, staring at him for a long moment, daring him to interrupt or even move, but seemed to lose track of exactly what she’d been going to say when, apparently fully prepared for battle, he didn’t even try to get a word in this time. She was flustered-looking, and the melting snow was making her damp hair stand up around her head as though it were living tendrils. She kept having to stop, to finger it back from her face, which only seemed to irritate her further; and she seemed to want him to _do_ something, or possibly just shout at him for a bit. After the fifth time she’d had to shove her hair back, he thought she might actually stamp her foot in irritation, if that weren’t such a childish and un-helpful gesture, and all in all, went a long way to destroying the tension coiling in his stomach; he almost laughed.

“You can stop grinning at me like that,” she muttered, huffily.

“Can’t help it; ye look like a kitten who’s fallen in the milk.”

She looked like she might rail against that for a moment, but seemed to think better of it. When she finally did begin talking, it was all in a rush, like she still didn’t think he’d give her the chance to finish. “Look, I just needed to know – I think, that is, I thought that maybe you might have meant something when you called me that, _my muirnin_ thing earlier—”

“ _Mo mhuirnín_ _,”_ he managed hoarsely. “It was _mo_ _mhuirnín_.”

“Sorry. _Mo mhuirnín._ I just – I wanted to know if you were just fooling around like you usually do, or if you really meant it, because I thought perhaps you might. Mean it, I mean, and—”

“Ye wanted to know if I _meant_ it?”

“Well, yes. I mean – I thought you might, but I—”

He did pull her close at that point, using a sharp tug to tumble her onto his lap. “’m no’ having this conversation with yer chin,” he muttered crossly. It worked neatly; it definitely interrupted her ramble, and brought her nicely tucked into the crook of his shoulder, where he was trying to ignore how good she felt, at least until he’d managed to confirm the rather ridiculous suspicion that was trying to make him grin like an idiot.

“Seamus—” she said, impatiently, and he could feel her preparing to try and stand again.

Throwing up a prayer for a bit of luck, he stopped her. “I did mean it,” he admitted quietly.

She went very still, before saying, “Oh.”

He practically held his breath, and waited a heart beat. Then two.

When after five, it appeared that was all he was going to get, he asked warily, _“Oh?”_

She shifted so she could face him, with one eyebrow raised knowingly as she struggled to maintain a straight face -and failed miserably.

He couldn’t help it; he laughed; he wanted to shout. And when she turned to scold him, he quickly made sure she was far too busy to mind.

The gentle slide of her lips against his was erotic in a way he’d never experienced before. Not because Hermione was any great kisser; though she was certainly more than pleasant at it; it was just the fact that it was _her_ that made all the difference. He went about it leisurely, gently exploring her lips with is own as he worked one hand under her wealth of hair to feather his thumb over the sensitive skin of her neck. He quickly had to give up any idea of controlling things as Hermione gave as good as she got, not hesitating to explore or touch him, eventually threading her hands into his hair with just enough tugging pressure to make him forget they were currently in a barn.

Of course, the fecking goat _would_ choose that moment to remind them.

He glared sourly at Molly for her playful, and extremely untimely, interruption from his new position on the barn floor. “See if’n I bring ye anymore apples, ye great woolly twit.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think I might be getting rather fond of this goat,” Hermione teased.

Seamus grunted, but made no further move to get up.

“So, where exactly does this take us, Seamus? I must say, my last relationship hardly qualifies me as an expert in this...”

“An’ mine with Lavender somehow made me one?” he winced as he shifted to get his arms underneath him and heaved himself up on his elbows so he could see her better. “’ve never been one for half measures, yeh know? I plan on being yer boyfriend, Hermione. Complete with hand-holding an’ grossing Ron out when I make a point of kissing yeh right in front of the boys next time they’re over, just so’s they know wha’ a lucky bastard I am.”

“And I thought he was the immature one.”

He grinned at her, and continued over her interruption, “’m like that sometimes - I figure by now yeh know wha’ yer getting into. I might e’en be persuaded to make the second bedroom into an office for yeh, as a bit o’bribery to convince yeh and tha’ cat of yers t’ move in.”

He looked at her seriously for a moment, a bit hesitant to throw up the breaks this soon, when he had just got her, sort to speak, but knowing he had to make sure she understood. “’m serious about this, girl. We’ll take it as you want, but I’m serious about you, so if yer not sure this is what you want –“

“Seamus, I don’t think that we should—”

“I don’t mean all today. But ’m serious about this, an’ that’s exactly where ’m heading, so if you’re not sure that’s what you want—”

She stopped him with a finger held against his lips. She was looking at him with serious eyes, and he knew she was thinking far more about these things that he tended to follow his gut on, but she was smiling – not grinning, but a small smile that nevertheless told him what he’d hoped to hear. He let his breath out.

“Did me sister teach ye any other useful little phrases?”

“No – well I mean, a couple that mean sort of the same thing, but that’s it really—”

“Good. _An bpósfaidh tú mé?_ ”

He slurred it a touch, just in case – but he figured by the time she figured it out, he should have plenty of opportunity to wear her down.

Two years was by far more than enough for him to know his own feelings, after all. And, with luck, he might even find the perfect ring.

~ Fini ~

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's Note:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> This is something that has been kicking 'round my hard drive for months, and I have finally been able to dust it off and show it the light of day. I've been incredibly absent from online writing for the last four or five months; since my grandfather was diagnosed with a terminal illness, I admit, I've blogged spam-ishly to my friends here on Live Journal, and it was a blessed breath of sanity when I needed it most *smiles*
> 
> As a result, this is my first attempt at getting back into my writing, and I'm sorry to leave so many people hanging, and thank you to everyone for their well wishes and support 
> 
> So, I'm slowly getting back on track, applying copious amounts of ice cream and Pride and Prejudice to my creative muse in an attempt to patch the breach, and slowly, I'm pulling it back together, thanks not only to my RL friends and family, but a wide assortment of online friends as well, so honestly, thank you everyone <3
> 
> Love from,
> 
> \- **Ny** (ruserra)


End file.
